


Maybe

by Dowwwney (Wynt)



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A little bit of angst, IronStrange, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sexual Tension, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 00:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14863031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynt/pseuds/Dowwwney
Summary: Just because you can make a magical wizard portal to anywhere doesn't mean it gives you an all-expenses-paid free pass to, well, everywhere.Stephen seems to think otherwise, and Tony is otherwise annoyed.





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Hopping on the ironstrange MCU bandwagon... because there isn't enough content of these two.

Tony’s heard of him, he’s sure.

No, he’s _absolutely_ sure he’s heard the name ‘ _Dr. Strange’_ somewhere-- in passing, while he was flitting through so many other things his brain had read the name somewhere, _somewhere._

A quick internet search was all he needed to do to confirm it. Ah yes, _the_ Dr. Stephen Strange-- famed medical legend. As Tony scrolled through the many results, it quickly went from esteemed articles and interviews to horrific news reports about his accident and then disappearance from society-- and then the occasional blog post about people who have thought they’ve seen him in the streets of New York.

Tony was never truly interested in the _deeply_ medical side of things-- he could create his own AI that had better cognitive function than the human brain could ever achieve in a timely matter so why waste his time on the latter? There were doctors for that very reason-- to progress that side of the knowledge spectrum, however slow the progress was.

“No longer practicing medicine, ey, Doc?” Tony says one mid-morning-- or perhaps afternoon?-- walking through the mansion’s kitchen and trying not to take in how utterly empty it was, save for himself and the other body making tea at the counter.

“I was wondering when one of you would try and Google me.” Strange replied, though there was a tone to it that made it sarcastic by default-- something Tony was especially adept at picking out because he would also use the same sardonic way of speech with, well, with everyone.

“Yeah, well, figured I should know who’s gonna be in my house for the next however long. FRIDAY scans everyone who enters, even if it’s through a magic portal rather than the front door.” Tony replies, stepping up next to the sorcerer in order to start making himself a mug of coffee.

“And what did your search reveal, might I ask,” Strange replies, turning ever so slightly towards Tony, the height difference stark between them now that they were nearly shoulder to shoulder.

Tony shrugs nonchalantly, because everything is nonchalant to him at his point-- c’mon, he’s flown missiles into space and has fought off aliens and lost several of his best friends and-- anyway, he shrugs and makes some sort of dismissive noise that earns a type of snort from the taller man next to him.

“No, truly, I want to know what they say.” Strange says, and half of his mouth is kind of quirked up and Tony spares him a glance as he presses a button on his coffee machine and watches it stir to life.

“Just the normal Dream Doctor bullshit and conspiracy theories for people like us.” Tony says, and this time he turns fully to face the doctor, leaning an elbow against the counter and tilting his head. His own mouth is quirked but it isn’t quite a smirk or a grin.

He doesn’t miss the way the doctor’s eyes flit to his neck, the collar of his faded AC/DC tee, and then to his own eyes.  “People like us?” He asks, but doesn’t sound too curious.

“Do you have to wear that cape everywhere? What are you? Superman?” Tony taunts. “The collar is so high-- this isn’t the 80’s anymore. Get a little too into D&D this weekend?”

Strange’s eyes narrow, but otherwise he doesn’t react and Tony _then_ grins, watches the way the other man’s eyes land on his mouth for a solid second.

“You’re avoiding the question.” Strange states.

“You already know the answer.” Tony says, and pushes himself off the counter and turns majority of his attention back to his now full mug of coffee. “Where did you even find tea here? I don’t drink tea. Nobody drinks tea.” _Bruce and Nat drink tea,_ Tony mentally corrects himself, but neither of those two have been in the kitchen for a while.

“I brought it myself.” the doctor replies.

Tony rolls his eyes, a throaty noise following suit. “That’s even worse.” He grabs his mug and turns to go.

“You haven’t even asked why I’m here.” Strange says as Tony walks away.

“If you wanted to cause any type of damage, you would’ve done it already. I’m beyond caring about the kind of people who decide to nest up here of all places.” Tony says, trying not to remember how full the kitchen once was, back when he made the mistake of caring about anyone who chose this as their home.

Tony leaves the doctor alone in the kitchen and heads back to his workshop, sipping the coffee he has in hand.

\--

 

He’s not sure how many days pass-- he was never good at keeping track of the time while he was working, which was all the time. He just knows that he’s in his workshop for an extended period and Dum-E brings him tasteless green smoothie after tasteless green smoothie and by the sixth one that Tony only half-drinks, he decides it’s probably been a while.

He’s out of coffee again and he deems that a good enough reason to get up and go upstairs to maybe see how light it is out of a window. By the time he comes back, he has a full mug of coffee, an estimation that it is about late afternoon today, and half a bagel in his mouth.

He nearly drops his bagel and his coffee when he sees Dr. Strange standing in the middle of his workshop, looking around and looking particularly unimpressed, which Tony doesn’t miss either.

“Ey, hey! No, no, no portals or magic in the workshop! Top rule!” Tony immediately yaps, shaking his head and tossing the bagel onto a table he passes before snapping his fingers and pointing towards the elevator he just stepped off of. “Out, out now, you’re not allowed here, no wizards allowed. Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”

Strange turns and acknowledges Tony, eyes fleeting over his entire form before turning and looking at the mess of a shop. There are gadgets here he doesn’t understand but isn’t intrigued by, clearly, and that just sort of irritates Tony.

“Are you listening? I said leave. This is my space, not yours, there are a billion bedrooms in this place, go pick one of those to be dungeon master in.” Tony says again, hating how he had to tilt his head up to look directly at the man. He was the exact height as Steve, he noticed, but then squashed that information down immediately.

“What could possibly be here that you’re so afraid of me finding?” Strange says, his voice smooth but still so incredibly full of himself and Tony knows he’s a hypocrite for thinking that.

“Uh, I don’t know, my life’s work? New projects? The secrets to my company? Take your pick. Put a blindfold on and throw a dart and see where it lands.” Tony responds, still clearly irritated, coffee in his hand forgotten.

Strange turns his eyes and locks them with the other man’s, not even so much as raising a brow when he says, “Your reaction to my presence is more interesting to me than any toy you could possibly have stored here.” Which, Tony realizes, is wizard-speak for ‘ _I really don’t care about anything you have’_ and that’s only kind of reassuring.

Reassuring enough that Tony doesn’t un-tense his shoulders but he quiets some alarm bells in his head, but not all of them.

“So what _are_ you here for, then? I’m not interested in being part of your campaign. I only ever play DM and that’s it, anything else is boring and too slow for me or my character is always too over-powered and I get kicked out otherwise.” Tony says and notes the way the other man narrows his eyes in question but doesn’t _outwardly_ question his D&D references he probably definitely doesn’t get.

“I needed to clear my head. A change of environment always aids in those endeavors.” Strange replies, as if that’s an acceptable excuse to invade another man’s man-cave.

“Right, cool, whatever, if you’re not gonna leave just don’t touch anything and don’t talk to me and don’t touch anything.” Tony sighs and strides over to his workbench and sets his coffee down, no longer having the appetite even for that. He sits himself down on his stool and picks up the hunk of metal he was currently working on and comparing it to the blueprints on the tablet next to him.

He feels a body behind him, leaning over him to see what he was working on and it’s annoying and distracting to the strongest degree and with as much bitter sarcasm he could muster, he says, “Does the class have any questions?”

“What is it you are doing?” Strange replies calmly, seriously, and a tad bit genuinely and Tony rolls his eyes.

“If you _must_ know, I’m trying out an idea someone ran by me.” Tony says, vague on purpose.

“And that would be…?” Strange asks, still giving no indication that he’s aware he’s out of his bounds.

“A kid that’s... _interning_ for me had a few suggestions on how I can 'extend my influence' to the… less-than-upper-class class of people. It’s all kinds stretching it in terms of being able to make anything of mine affordable to someone who doesn’t make a living wage but I hardly have anything else to work on right now.” Tony says, and it’s partially true. He _could_ work on the nanobot suit but it’s all just technical details at this point and without Steve and the others to play crash-test dummy with him, it’s useless to go further.

“Who is Steve?” Strange asks, forcing Tony to realize he was thinking out loud again.

“Nothing. Nobody. Talking to myself is a habit of mine from years of being down here alone and talking to robots so ignore anything I might say because I definitely am _not_ talking to you.” He didn’t mean to sound like a teenager with a grudge, but he didn’t need to hear anyone else say Steve’s name out loud. It makes everything a little too real for him to handle-- Tony makes sure he doesn't say  _that_ out loud.

“Hm.” Strange says, and doesn’t say anything more. His presence never leaves from behind where Tony is sitting though, clearly still watching him and Tony doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or annoyed.

“Flattered, I should say. I don’t particularly find anything like this interesting, usually.” Strange says and ah, dammit, Tony was thinking too loudly again.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Tony asks, turning around in his seat and not expecting the doctor to be _that_ close. Tony has to lean backwards a bit against his table because Strange doesn’t move from his spot, looking down at him.

“Not particularly, no.” Strange responds and they both know it's a lie, there are bigger and scarier things to worry about and prepare for but there's only so much preparing one can do here on Earth before you end up on TV on an episode of Doomsday Preppers.

Tony can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on but he doesn’t turn back to his work. It’s not that he doesn’t feel comfortable working with company, it’s more of him not wanting to give Strange the satisfaction of watching. Immature and childish, yeah, but Tony was little else when it came to his hobbies. 

He lets his eyes roam over the doctor’s face, then down to his neck covered by that horrible looking collar, and down the front of his clothes and landing on the large eye-shaped pendant sat comfortably in the middle of his chest-- a little lower than where Tony’s arc reactor once sat, now replaced with several large scars. His eyes then move to the rest of the long, large red cloak and it gives him a pause.

“Is it… moving? There’s no wind in here. Why is it acting like there’s wind? Stop it, you look ridiculous.” Tony says and he misses the momentary surprise that flashes across the doctor’s face as he glances down at his own cloak that, in that moment, does stop moving.

“Aw, did I embarrass you?” Tony says and it’s clear he’s speaking to the cloak now, which has Strange’s full attention. “Pay attention to environmental physics if you don’t wanna get called out. No windows, no wind. Get it? Looking cool doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense.”

Tony sighs and moves to stand up, turning away from Strange to give himself room to do so but as he goes to take a step something wraps around his ankle and _pulls._

It’s a weird couple of moments for Tony, then. He felt something wrap around his leg and before his brain could fully panic he was being intentionally, aggressively tripped. His arms flew out to catch himself against the hard, concrete, oil-stained floor-- but his body never made it. Instead, strong hands gripped his arms and yanked him back up-right.

His breathing was heavy and shallow and the feeling of fingers bruising his biceps and a chest against his like a brick wall were enough to cause his claustrophobia to kick in and Tony never really did learn to cope with his trauma on his own. That's what other people were good for, honestly-- and he forces himself not to think of anybody in particular.

He shoves Strange away from him with much more force than he can handle and ends up stumbling backwards and violently catches himself on his workbench, knuckles white where they grip the table and he feels entirely too warm and too cold at the same time. His heart is beating heavy and hard and too fast in his ears and there’s a sharp agony in his chest, threatening his life, choking him.

And then there’s a weight, firm and confident, pressing against his sternum and also on his back at the same place and there’s a voice telling him to breathe, breathe, _breathe._

He breathes in time to what the voice says, when the voice says, feeling the chill of air against the sweat that’s formed on his temple. He breathes, inhales for a matter of seconds, holds it, and exhales, and he knows how this goes. This is familiar, because he’s had so many people do this to him, _for_ him.

“The shrapnel isn’t there anymore. You’re in your home.” Strange says into his ear, not quite a whisper. The first sentence brings Tony to the surface of reality just enough to get offended and shove the man away from him with his shoulder and elbow.

“How do you know about that?” Tony says, and hates the way the man still has his hands partially raised, as if he might be needed again. Tony didn’t need him in the first place-- didn’t need anyone in the first place, except maybe Rhodey and Pepper and Steve and--

“It was in the papers. You searched me up, so I thought I would do the same. Makes for a more even playing field.”  Strange answers honestly, and Tony feels stupid for asking because duh, _duh,_ everyone knows because yeah it _was_ reported and now he’s even _more_ angry because someone just made him feel _stupid_ and that never, _ever_ happens to him.

“Get out.” Tony says, and he seats himself carefully back on his stool, leaning heavily on his bench and running his hands over his face, breathing deeply.

“Do you have panic attacks often?” Strange asks, and does this guy ever know when to stop?

“I said _get out.”_ Tony growls into his hands. “You overstayed your welcome. Campaign is over.  _Leave.”_

There’s a long moment of silence and Tony is half-convinced that the man left through one of his stupid fancy dumb wizard portals by the time that Strange actually speaks.

“I apologize for my cloak’s behavior.” And it isn’t sarcastic, condescending, or uncaring-- and Tony isn’t sure how to feel about that.

The next time he looks, Strange is gone and he’s alone.

\--

 

It’s a while before Tony sees the wizard again, and after just those couple intrusive meetings he’s half expecting Strange to be standing ominously in every room he walks into. When he’s not, repeatedly, Tony can’t help but find himself lounging on the couch in the living room one evening, martini in hand, asking FRIDAY to bring up those old articles of Doctor Stephen Strange before the accident.

He reads up a bit more than he did the first time, pays attention to more details, specifically the pictures and the names that are mentioned and the faces that are in the backgrounds. Half of these people Tony has met before, and the other half he’s heard of. The medical marvels of it all though only half keep his attention and the more of his martini he drinks, the more his brain wanders to other things.

He wonders if Strange hadn’t gotten into that accident if they would’ve ran into each other at some point. He’s sure they would have, Strange seems to have met and be acquainted with everyone Tony used to be, back when Stark Industries was his priority and not on the backburner to saving the world in its entirety. He kind of misses the meetings, the galas, the glitter and glamour of it all back when he wore pressed suits that were worth more than a middle-class house and Pepper was at his elbow.

It would be at one of those things, where everyone wore a Rolex or Swarovski crystals or both, that they would no doubt run into each other. In a setting like that, without the weight of intergalactic threats on his shoulders, Tony probably would’ve given Strange a lot of his attention. He wasn’t unattractive and he was certainly competent, two things that caught Tony’s interest.

Tony finishes his martini-- the second of this evening’s, because no one is here to tell him no-- when he says aloud. “I wonder if you’re a dancer.”

“Not often, but I didn’t neglect the activity entirely.”

Tony must be too intoxicated to be surprised that _now_ Stephen would show up-- and yeah, they’re on a first-name basis because Tony said so-- and instead Tony lets his head fall back against the armrest of the couch to look at the taller man upside down from his angle.

Strange is staring at him, but not really scrutinizing him. He looks as unimpressed and unsurprised as any other time as he takes in Tony’s languid form, calmed by the alcohol in his system.

“Are you any good at it?” Tony asks, raising a brow. Strange looks away in favor of looking at the large picture of himself on the television, smiling in his own pressed suit and shaking hands with someone he didn’t bother to remember after that evening.

“I would say so, but I only lead.” Stephen answers truthfully, eyes looking back to Tony as the smaller man stands up. “And yourself?” He asks, unmoving as Tony approaches him.

It’s the alcohol-- the liquid courage, stupidity in a bottle-- that has Tony placing one hand against Stephen’s stomach, the other on his arm under the cloak as he leans heavily against the man that continues to stand firm where he is.

“I loved dancing at those things. I would mostly lead, but I didn’t mind anyone else taking charge.” He pauses, eyes examining the way it Stephen’s hair grayed at his ears and a little in his beard. “If they wanted to, I mean. Too many found me too intimidating to even try.” Tony says, remembering the few faces that did approach him first, fuzzy with faded memory.

There’s a type of tension in the air, one that even slightly-drunk Tony can feel that only gets heavier the longer they stare at each other because that’s all Stephen is doing, _staring at him_ , eyes flitting over his face, taking in every detail.

Eventually, though, Tony’s fails to hide his disappointment and he pulls away from the doctor completely, turning around to leave because he’s not stupid enough to stay in the room after that.

“And if they wanted to?” Stephen’s voice says, even and controlled as ever.

“Wanted to what?” Tony asks, not turning around.

“Try.”

That gave Tony pause, and he had to blink. Did he drink too many martinis? It’s been a while since he shot back the good old devil’s water in its many forms, so it was totally possible that he definitely didn’t hear Stephen flirting _back_ with him.

Turning around, Tony meets Stephen’s eyes and knows he wasn’t making things up.

It’s so long before Tony responds because he for a moment forgot how to talk, believe it or not, but when he finally does, it’s short.

“They just have to ask.” Tony says, and the tension is too much for him. His heart is racing and the alcohol doesn’t help his nerves and he flees right after that to the safety of his bedroom, which proves to be counterproductive because the instant he lays eyes on his large bed, he’s imagining someone _else_ with him. Why did his color scheme have to be red? His blankets and pillows were red and they reminded them too much of that stupid cloak that Stephen wore and he really, _really_ didn’t need to be thinking about him right now.

A cold shower helped calm him down, in more ways than one, and less than half an hour later he was in boxer’s and in bed, curled up into the large red blankets and sheets. The alcohol, now having made its way through his system, makes his eyelids heavy and he doesn’t try and fight the lull of sleep.

Stephen is still on his mind, but especially the pictures of him in the articles. They would meet at a gala, some fancy dinner and dance meeting, _something,_ where they’re both wearing expensive pressed suits and accessories worth enough to end poverty in Manhattan and Tony would be at the open bar chatting up somebody and Stephen would come up and get his attention and _keep_ his attention. And maybe they would dance.

They would dance, and Stephen would be good at it because he would lead and he wouldn’t let Tony even try and Tony wouldn’t. Then afterwards they both find themselves in someone’s expensive car heading to someone’s home, to someone’s bedroom, and Stephen would continue to be in charge even there, not letting Tony even try and, again, Tony wouldn’t.

Stephen would hold him down, drag his fingers rough and confident against Tony’s skin, kiss him into submission and cover him with kisses and bites enough to leave marks and have Tony in puddle beneath him. Stephen would tell him to spread his legs and Tony would, perfectly happy to release the reins entirely to someone who wholly enjoyed holding them.

In a different lifetime, or alternate universe where Stephen wasn’t a gatekeeping wizard and Tony wasn’t Iron Man-- maybe.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Might make a second chapter because it's a bit unfair of me to leave it off like this! Let me know what you think, please! I'm quite enamored with these two...


End file.
